Hell's Gate-ARC

by David Weber

  "I don't give a good godsdamn whose son you are, Olderhan," Thalmayr hissed. "You give another order to one of my men, and I'll send you back to Fort Rycharn in chains to face charges for mutiny in the face of the enemy!"

  "Try it," Jasak said very, very quietly. "'These people,' as you put it, are my prisoners, not yours."

  "They—" Thalmayr began.

  "Shut your brainless mouth," Jasak said coldly. "I was in command of the unit which took them prisoner. The unit which disobeyed my orders and opened fire on a civilian survey party whose leader was standing there without a weapon in his hands trying his best to make peaceful contact despite the previous death of one of his people at our hands. We . . . were . . . in . . . the . . . wrong," he spaced the words out with deadly precision, "and I was in command, and they surrendered themselves to me honorably." He locked his gaze with Thalmayr's, his expression harder than steel. "'These people' are shardonai, Hundred Thalmayr. My shardonai."

  Thalmayr had opened his mouth once again. Now he closed it, glaring back at Jasak. The term "shardon" came from Old Andaran. Literally, it meant "shieldling," and it indicated an individual under the personal protection of an Andaran warrior and his house. It was a concept which stemmed from almost two thousand years of Andaran history. There could be many reasons for the relationship, but one of the oldest—and most sacred, under the Andaran honor code—was the acknowledgment of responsibility for dishonorable or illegal actions by troops under a warrior's command.

  "I don't care what else they may be," Thalmayr said after a moment. A corner of his mind knew he ought to drop it, but he was too furious. "They're also enemies of the Union who have killed Army personnel, and as long as they're on a post I command, they will be properly manacled and restrained!"

  "Try it," Jasak repeated, and this time it came out almost in a croon. "Please try it. Violate my shardon obligation, and you'll be dead on the ground before you finish the order."

  Thalmayr blanched, his face suddenly bone-white as he saw the absolute sincerity in Jasak's blazing eyes. Like Jasak, Thalmayr carried his short sword at his hip, but the restraining strap was firmly buttoned across the quillons, and he very carefully kept his hand well away from it as he backed up two involuntary steps.

  Silence hovered between them, colder than ice and just as brittle. Then, finally, Thalmayr straightened his spine and scowled.

  "You may be certain, Hundred Olderhan, that I'll be filing charges for insubordination and threatening a superior officer."

  "File and be damned," Jasak said, still in that soft, deadly tone.

  "And," Thalmayr continued, trying to ignore Jasak's response, "I'll also be lodging a formal protest over your handling of these people. Shardonai or not, enemy prisoners should be restrained to prevent escape attempts."

  Jason looked at him disbelieving way, then barked a harsh laugh.

  "Escape?" he repeated. "And just where would they go, Hundred? They're in the middle of a heavily guarded camp seven hundred miles from the nearest coastline. Unless I miss my guess, Shaylar's suffering from a concussion, they have no idea how far they are from the portal they came through, and the gods alone know how many miles beyond that portal they'd have to go to find help! With Shaylar too badly injured to travel far, no weapons, and no supplies, they can't run. Not together—and Jathmar won't abandon her."

  "You sound awfully godsdamned sure of yourself for someone who's fucked up every single command decision for the past two days by the numbers!" Thalmayr snarled.

  "Because he's right," another voice said, and Thalmayr's head snapped around as Gadrial Kelbryan stepped unexpectedly into the fray. He stared at her for a moment, and she looked back with an expression which reminded Jasak of a gryphon defending her chicks. Thalmayr started to glare back, then turned an even darker shade of red as he suddenly realized what sort of language he'd been using in her presence.

  "Magister Kelbryan," Jasak said formally, "May I present Commander of One Hundred Hadrign Thalmayr. Hundred Thalmayr, Magister Gadrial Kelbryan, Director of Theoretical Research for the Garth Showma Institute, and special assistant to Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah."

  "Hundred." Gadrial nodded, her voice cool, and Thalmayr actually clicked his boot heels as he swept her an elaborate bow. As his head dipped low, Gadrial looked across him at Jasak and rolled her eyes, then wiped the look away, replacing it with a cool, composed gaze as Thalmayr came back upright.

  "I apologize for my language, Magister," Thalmayr said almost obsequiously. Obviously, he knew exactly who Gadrial was . . . and recognized just how fatal to his career it would be to make a mortal enemy out of the second ranking member of the Garth Showma Institute's faculty. Although she wasn't officially in the military, Gadrial carried the equivalent grade of a commander of ten thousand in the UTTTA's civil service.

  "I've heard soldiers talking to each other before, Hundred," she said, after a moment, and his shoulders seemed to relax just a bit. "If seldom quite so . . . freely," she added in that same cool voice with perfect timing, and his shoulders tightened back up instantly.

  "Ah, yes," he replied, then stood there for a moment, as if trying to think of something else to say. "Ah, you were saying, Magister?" he continued finally.

  "I was saying that Sir Jasak," she said, eyes glittering as she stressed Jasak's title ever so slightly, "is quite right in his assessment of our unexpected guests. And of our obligations to then."

  Thalmayr's eyebrows climbed, and Jasak wondered just how much Gadrial actually knew about the shardon relationship. He was willing to bet she didn't begin to understand all of the deep-seated obligations of personal and familial honor bound up in it—she was simply too Ransaran to grasp the implications of Andara's feudal past. Obviously Thalmayr was thinking exactly the same thing, but whatever Jasak's opinion of the other man's basic intelligence—or lack thereof—he was at least smart enough not to pursue that particular basilisk.

  "How so, Magister?" he asked courteously, instead.

  "I've spent a great deal of time with Shaylar and Jathmar since their capture," Gadrial replied. "He's utterly devoted to her, as she is to him. Think for a moment, Hundred, how you'd feel if you were hundreds of miles from help and—"

  "They may not be that far from their portal. It's my understanding that the cluster of portals you and Magister Halathyn have detected are in very close proximity. That means—"

  "How dare you interrupt a Guild magister?"

  Gadrial's voice cracked like a whip. She bristled so furiously her very hair seemed to crackle and Thalmayr blanched and backed up—first one step, then another—as she advanced on him.

  "Are you truly the unschooled, illiterate, brainless, unwashed barbarian you appear to be?" Her voice was like a sword. "Or does the Andaran military academy include courses on discourtesy as part of its standard curriculum? Because if it does, you obviously excelled in at least one subject!"

  "Magister, I—"

  "Enough!" The air sizzled around her—literally sizzled as static charges cracked and popped like the aura of a Mythalan firebird. "I'm tired of musclebound idiots insulting my intelligence, my professional competence, and my rank! Shevan Garlath was a disgrace to the uniform he died in, and so far, Hundred Thalmayr, I'm not any more favorably impressed by you!"

  Hadrign Thalmayr swallowed hard. For a moment, Jasak almost felt sorry for the other man, despite his own blinding rage. The wrath of any full magister was something few mortals cared to incur; the wrath of this magister could destroy the career of a man with far better political and patronage connections than Thalmayr possessed.

  "Magister Kelbryan, a thousand pardons! I beg your forgiveness for my deplorable discourtesy."

  She tilted her head back, staring down her nose at him despite the fact that he stood two full hands taller than she did. She let him sweat for another long moment, then gave a minute, frost-rimmed nod.

  "Apology accepted," she said coldly. Then added, "As for your objection, we know how relatively cl
ose we are to their portal; they don't."

  Thalmayr started to protest again, then clamped his lips together and kept whatever it was carefully behind his teeth.

  "Much better, Hundred Thalmayr." Gadrial's eyes glinted. "They don't know for the simple reason that they were both unconscious for most of the flight here. They have no way of knowing how far we brought them by dragon."

  "Oh. Oh, I see." Thalmayr cleared his throat. "Well, yes. That does change the picture a bit, doesn't it?"

  Jasak carefully refrained from snorting aloud.

  "It certainly does," Gadrial agreed coldly. "Not only do they have no idea how far they'd have to go, but Shaylar can't bolt, and Sir Jasak is right—Jathmar won't, not without her. Look at them, Hundred Thalmayr. I mean that literally. Look at them."

  Thalmayr's head turned like a marionette's. Jathmar had placed himself squarely between the hundred and Shaylar. His eyes were slitted, his posture tense. He stood with his knees slightly bent, his hands half-fisted at his sides, coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

  "He's already close to the breakpoint," Gadrial said in a quieter, softer voice. "Do you really want to push him over the edge and set off of violent confrontation that might well end in another death, Hundred? And do you think your superiors will thank you for managing to kill off one of the only two sources of information we currently possess just to restrain a man who isn't going to run away anyway?"

  Hundred Thalmayr cleared his throat again.

  "You . . . may just have a point, Magister."

  "How magnanimous of you to agree, Hundred."

  He flushed under the ice-cold irony of her voice. For just an instant Jasak thought he might actually take up her verbal gage, but apparently even he wasn't that stupid.

  "Very well," he muttered instead, his voice brittle. "I'll concede the point."

  "Thank you. My job is hard enough as it is, without fighting the Army every step of the way."

  "Your job, Magister?"

  "Yes, my job. Isn't it obvious?" she asked, deliberately needling him. But he only blinked, clearly not seeing where she was headed.

  "I'm the only non-soldier in this camp," she said in a deliberately patient voice. "The only person they're likely to even halfway trust. I've also seen virtually everything that happened out here. What I know, what I've already seen and done, make my inclusion in whatever happens to them imperative."

  "That's the official position of the Guild?" he asked, knowing full well that the Guild didn't know anything about this situation as yet. Gadrial knew it, too, but she looked him squarely in the eye.

  "It is," she said flatly, and it would be, as soon as the news broke. She'd see to that personally, if she had to. Meanwhile, the closer she stayed to them, the less likely it was that anyone in the Army—or in the halls of political power, for that matter—would be able to spirit them off under a veil of secrecy and do whatever they deemed "necessary" to extract information. Not even politicians and commanders of legions wanted to take on the Guild of Sorcerers, and the Guild would certainly back her. Especially with Magister Halathyn's guaranteed support.

  Gadrial wasn't foolish enough to think that anyone, even Magister Halathyn himself, could—or even should—shield them from any prying. But there were right and wrong ways of obtaining information from them, and Gadrial was determined that the right way would prevail.

  Hundred Thalmayr obviously wasn't made of sufficiently stern stuff to stand against her.

  "Very well, Magister Kelbryan," he said in a conciliatory tone. Then he glanced at Jasak again. "The prisoners are yours, Hundred. See to it," he added, his voice heavy with warning as he turned back to Gadrial once more, "that you at least remember whose side you're on."

  Gadrial bristled again, but he'd already turned on his heel and walked off, spitting orders as he went. She met Jasak's gaze and found a curious blend of respect, regret, and dark worry in his eyes.

  "You'd best pack your things," was all he said. "Salmeer's going to be wanting to leave shortly."

  "You think Thalmayr's wrong to stay?" she asked quietly.

  "Think?" He snorted. "No, I don't think he's wrong. I know it."

  "I agree with you about the need to prevent another violent confrontation, but he's right about the size of the portal," she pointed out unwillingly, hating to sound as if she were siding with Thalmayr about anything. "All of the upstream portals from here are larger. If it does come to more shooting, isn't this the best place to try and hold them?"

  "Hundred Thalmayr doesn't have a clue what he's up against," Jasak said softly, his tone flat. "He hasn't seen these people's weapons in action, and he doesn't know one damned thing more than I do about how many of them are out there, how close they are, how quickly they can follow us back to this portal. He won't know, either, until Chief Sword Threbuch gets back here. But instead of pulling people out, he's going to be moving more of them in." He shook his head. "One of my—his—platoons is all the way back in Erthos, over four thousand miles from here. First Platoon's been effectively destroyed, and Five Hundred Klian's battalion's scattered around holding posts across at least three universes. That leaves Thaylar with only two platoons—barely a hundred and twenty more men, even with supports, since they're both understrength. That's not going to be enough to hold against any sort of attack in strength, but it will be big enough to make it impossible for him to disengage and pull out quickly if something too big to handle comes at him."

  "And he's not remotely prepared to listen to you," Gadrial worried.

  "He's convinced I screwed up, probably because I panicked. He thinks I behaved dishonorably, and that my intention to retreat was an act of cowardice."

  "Cowardice! Is he insane? And you did not act dishonorably! Why, that pompous, stupid—!"

  "Peace, Magister." He held up one hand, and she subsided, still fuming. "This isn't your fight," he said gently. "And rest assured that that accusation will be raised again.

  "Any jackass who makes that accusation will hear the truth from me," she said, eyes slitted, "even if I have to knock them down and stand on their chests while I shout at them!"

  "My Lady," Jasak said with a slight smile, "that's a sight I'd relish seeing. But be that as it may, I still have to get them safely back to New Arcana. Pack for the journey, please. I have to speak with Magister Halathyn. Immediately."

  "Halathyn," she breathed, her face suddenly pale. "He has to go with us."

  "Yes, he has to," Jasak agreed. "And he's a cantankerous, dragon-headed, opinionated old curmudgeon, far too accustomed to getting his own way, who shouldn't be allowed outside the precincts of the Academy without an armed keeper and a leash."

  He half-expected her to be insulted, but instead, her lips quirked in a slightly strained smile.

  "My goodness, you do know him rather well, don't you?"

  "That I do, and he's not going to want to get any further away from this damned portal cluster than he absolutely has to. So, if you'll excuse me?"

  He turned away, and it was clear to Gadrial as he stalked toward Halathyn's tent that he cared for that cantankerous, dragon-headed, opinionated old curmudgeon almost as much as she did. And, she thought, biting her lip, he was absolutely right about how hard it was going to be to convince Halathyn to "abandon his post" on the cusp of uncovering the greatest single trans-temporal discovery of all time: not simply a portal, but another entire trans-universal civilization! Could Jasak—or she—possibly come up with an argument potent enough to pull that off?

  Fear, cold as a Ransaran winter wind, blew through her heart. She stood for a moment longer, watching Jasak bend to duck under the fly of Halathyn's tent. Then she trudged off toward her own tent, and started to pack.

  "There's more trouble brewing," Jathmar said tersely, and Shaylar nodded.

  Judging by the raised voices coming from a nearby tent, Jasak and the elderly, dark-skinned Halathyn who'd done such astonishing things weren't exactly in perfect agreement about something. Halathyn so
unded reasonable and confident, if a trifle irritated, while Jasak sounded angry and frustrated. The newcomer—the man Jasak and Gadrial had called "Thalmayr"—strode toward the tent, and Jathmar tensed. His maddening inability to understand what anyone said hadn't prevented him from recognizing the fact that Thalmayr represented a serious threat to him and Shaylar . . . or the fury with which Jasak had confronted the other man over it.

  But Thalmayr paused, just outside the tent flap, obviously eavesdropping. At least he didn't intrude and make whatever was going on still worse, but Jathmar would almost have preferred that to the man's nasty grin before he moved on.

  Whatever Jasak and Halathyn were arguing about, Jathmar decided he'd better worry about it, if Thalmayr was glad it was taking place. Thalmayr scared him straight down to his socks, and he didn't mind admitting it. Not, at any rate, as much as he hated admitting that he and Shaylar needed Jasak and Gadrial as protection against the other man.